Simana’s Diaries – 27 – Irkıl Ata

Kayçı fell silent here. There was a long silence.

Nothing could be heard now except the crackling of the fire. It was as if even the moon in the sky had drawn closer, waiting for the story to continue. Kayçı gently touched the strings of the topşur; the sound that emerged this time was different from the previous ones. It was thinner, more taut… It resembled the sound a string makes just before it snaps.

Then the shepherd raised his head.

“As Irkıl’s name grew,” he said, “Gök began to hear him.”

Just then, the wind swept over the fire. The flames bent for a brief moment.

“Ürüng Ayığ Toyon, sitting in the whiteness of the ninth floor, began to hear the same name spoken in the language of humans.”
If a child recovered, they would say, “Irkıl.”
They used to say, “If a dead person took a breath, they’d say ‘Irkıl.’”
If a woman were to awaken from a dark dream, they would say she had a "Irkıl."
“And over time…”

Kayçı narrowed his eyes here.

“…Some people began to forget the name of the sky and speak only of His name.”

One of the elders in the room bowed his head without realizing it.

Kayçı continued:

“And one night…”

Topşur’s voice deepened.

“…The paths of the heavens have opened.”

They say that as Irkıl sat at his drum, the fire suddenly turned blue. The shadows inside the tent lengthened. Then a white light descending from the heavens filled Irkıl’s tent from top to bottom. When people looked in from the outside, they saw that the shadows passing behind the felt were not human shadows; for some of the shadows had horns on their heads, and wings hung from the shoulders of others.

And that night, Ürüng Ayığ Toyon summoned Irkıl to his presence.

Here, the sound of the kayçı grew softer.

“They say that Irkıl ascended through the heavens with his drum. He passed through the first heaven. He passed through the second heaven. He walked among the stars.”
“The light of Süt-Ak-Köl fell upon his shoulders. And finally, he arrived before the throne within the whiteness.”

The strings of the topşur fell silent. The kayçı was now almost whispering.

“Ürüng Ayığ Toyon looked at her.”

A long silence…

“And he said, ‘O kam… Who gave you this power?’”

The children sitting by the fire were now sitting motionless.

Kayçı closed his eyes before Irkıl could answer. Then he spoke in that dark voice that came from the deepest part of his throat:

“Irkıl raised his head. And he said…”

He struck the strings of the topşur hard.

“‘I recognize no higher power.’”

The fire suddenly crackled.

“‘Whatever I do… I do it with my own power. I am Irkıl, who has unlocked the secrets of the earth and the heavens! My power is equal to that of the great creators; even death fears me!’”

At that moment, it was as if the night had shrunk. And the guide, lowering his voice until it was barely audible, uttered the final sentence:

“The moment those words were spoken… the silence of the sky changed.”

As the last words from the Kayçı’s mouth still trembled above the fire, the tribe held its breath. The strings of the Topşur emitted a faint hum, as if vibrating on their own. The Kayçı bowed his head. Then, his voice—this time coming from much deeper within—began to speak:

“And when Irkıl spoke those words… the whiteness of the sky darkened.”

The wind suddenly changed direction. The flame of the fire bent toward the ground. The moon hid behind a cloud. One of the children clung to his mother’s arm in fear. Because the storyteller’s voice was no longer recounting an epic—it seemed to be bringing that moment back to life.

“Ürüng Ayığ Toyon’s gaze changed. The silence of the nine heavens grew heavy. The stars did not stir from their places. But their light faded.”

Here, the kayçı struck the strings of the topşur forcefully.

A murmur rose.

“And then…”

He lowered his voice.

“…The sky split open.”

At that moment, the fire in the hut suddenly flared up; the sounds coming from the depths of the forest began anew. It was as if the epic being told had begun to seep into the night.

“Lightning struck the earth like iron whips.”
The mountains roared.
The waters have receded.
The wolves have stopped howling.
“The horses knelt.”

As the storyteller’s voice grew heavier, the expressions on the faces of the people gathered around the fire began to change. For the anger being described was not human anger; it was the order’s own response to its own wound.

“Ürüng Ayığ Toyon said:
“A path is laid out for a person… But if a person mistakes themselves for the path, the heavens will cease to carry them.”

And then a fire flared up around Irkıl.

This fire was unlike the fire of dry wood. It had no color; at times it appeared blue, at times white, and at times like a darkness the human eye could not name. When the flames engulfed Irkıl’s body, people expected him to scream. But Irkıl did not scream.

Kayçı was silent for a long time. Then he spoke slowly:

“Because some fires do not touch the body…”
“It burns away the excess within a person.”

The strings of the Topşur vibrated deeply.

“Irkıl’s bones didn’t crack.”
The meat wasn’t charred.
“But the name was split up.”

Kayçı fixed his gaze on the fire.

“And the nature of that fire was never fully understood.”

Her voice had now almost turned into a whisper.

“Some say that Ürüng Ayığ Toyon set it ablaze.”
“Some say it was his own pride that consumed Irkıl.”

Kayçı fell silent here.

He was silent for a long time. He simply touched the strings of the topşur gently, as if listening to a sound coming from a place far away. Sparks rising from the fire mingled with the night, and the wind carried them over the tents and into the darkness. Then the kayçı raised his head; in his eyes, one could sense that the fire he had just described was still burning.

“But…” he said. “Fire couldn’t destroy Irkıl.”

The strings of the Topşur resonated deeply.

“Every spark that leapt from that mighty fire fell to a different corner of the world. Some were swept to the lonely slopes of high mountains, some to the banks of mist-shrouded rivers, and some to the destinies of children not yet born…”

As Kayçı spoke, his voice slowed; it was as if he were weaving what he was saying into the night.

“And wherever the spark fell, a new flame was kindled.”

They say that if a child stares into the fire for days without speaking to anyone…
If a young girl saw the layers of the heavens in her dream and, upon waking, spoke words in an ancient language she didn’t understand…
If a hunter, while walking through the forest, began to hear a sound coming from among the trees, people would bow their heads and whisper: “Irkıl’s spark has touched it.”

Kayçı tapped the body of the topşur lightly with his palm.

“That’s why,” he said, “all the kam in the world are children of the same fire.”

The fire crackled.

“Some picked up their drum in the shade of a tree.”
Some sang their first song by a riverbank.
For some, the mountain spirit has called to their soul.
“Some were carried off by a fox in the middle of the night.”

Simana’s gaze shifted slightly.

Kayçı continued speaking without turning his head toward him, as if he hadn’t noticed:

“Irkıl Ata’s body disintegrated in the fire.”
“But the soul… remained on that great bridge between heaven and earth.”

This time, Topşur’s voice came out very soft.

“Now he is the ancestor of all the kam.”
“He sometimes appears in the form of an animal to lost souls.”

Kayçı gazed intently at the fire for a long time.

“Sometimes he becomes an old wolf.”
He walks silently… Turns and glances back once… Then disappears into the darkness.
Sometimes it takes the form of a black bird; when a person hears its song, they begin to hear the voice within themselves as well.
“Sometimes it appears as a deer with antlers reaching toward the sky; those who follow it either find their way or lose their minds.”

Kayçı’s voice grew much quieter.

“But most of all…”

There was a long silence.

“…He comes in the guise of a fox.”

Simana’s fingers clasped together involuntarily.

“Because the fox does not force its way through.”
Change direction.
People think they’re following him…
“Yet the fox leads one through the very heart of one’s own destiny.”

Kayçı closed his eyes.

“And on some nights…”
When a deer spots two red eyes deep within the dark forest…
“You realize that Irkıl Ata is still traveling the world.”

After Kayçı spoke his final words, he did not touch the strings of the topşur. He left his hands resting on the instrument and bowed his head slightly. The crackling of the fire became audible once more; yet even that sound seemed to have changed slightly. For when a great epic comes to an end, one knows they are still sitting in the same night, yet feels they are no longer the same person.

No one spoke right away. Even the children were quiet.

The people sitting around the fire seemed as though they had just witnessed an ancient door open briefly for a moment. One of the elders exhaled slowly. A woman remained motionless for a long time, unaware that she had set the bowl she was holding down on the ground.

Simana, meanwhile, sat motionless.

He couldn’t get the moment when Kayçı said “fox” out of his mind. That gaze deep within the dark forest… That crimson shadow that stopped in the middle of the path on hunting day and didn’t turn back, but simply stared… Then the silence by the lake… The light on the third floor… He thought of the spirits passing each other without touching on the surface of Süt-Ak-Köl. Inside him, certain fragments that had long been separated from one another were quietly shifting into place.

And just then… Simana saw a movement in the darkness where the fire couldn’t reach. Two small lights became visible among the shadows. A pair of amber-colored lights…

The rest of the crowd hadn’t noticed a thing. The children were still huddled together, captivated by the epic tale the storyteller had recounted, while the elders sat with their heads bowed in thought. But Simana recognized that look.

Just then, the sound of the slide rose again.

But this time, it wasn’t as if she were telling an epic tale… She spoke as if she were sharing ancient wisdom with only the person who needed to hear it:

“One should not fear kindling the fire; one should fear believing oneself to be the fire.”

The fox paused for just a moment longer in the darkness. Then it turned its head slightly. And it walked off, blending into the night. Simana did not follow.

Because she now knew that some guides don’t lead you along their path. They merely remind you that the path is still open.